Malediction
by MapleleafCameo
Summary: Cursed to a half-life, John and Sherlock must fight the forces of evil to be reunited once again. Based on the movie Ladyhawke. S3 spoilers Rated M Johnlock Chapter 5. The Hawk mal·e·dic·tion noun noun: malediction; plural noun: maledictions a magical word or phrase uttered with the intention of bringing about evil or destruction; a curse.
1. Prologue

**A/N: This is somewhat sort of based on Ladyhawke – a lot of the ideas & plot will be from that but with my own twists.**

**I hope to have the first real chapter up this week:)**

**Thanks to johnsarmylady & mattsloved1 for checking it over for me:)**

**I hope you enjoy.**

**I don't own. Sad that:)**

Prologue

_I remember the last night we had together and I hold it close inside, as precious a gift as any I have ever received. It moves in front of me. I can almost touch the heft and weight as if it were tangible. The colours are bright and sharp, like painted glass with the sun streaming through, sun John hasn't seen with human eyes for nearly two years or more. It is the clearest memory I have, much richer than anything that happened yesterday or the day before. Much purer than the other memories I retain as the wolf. Those are completely animal and instinct, all betrayal of my intellect and self-control. His appetites are base and simplistic. They are about transport and survival. Or protection of the one I love above all others._

_That night, that last perfect, heartbreaking night, the firelight gleamed bright, picking out the gold in his hair, gold, brown and gray I only see in the feathered wings any more. As the wolf, I don't see the bright colours and as the human, feathers are different from hair._

_He sat in his chair, arms on his knees in that way he has and leaned forward and laughed, the crow's feet in the corners, warm and familiar. I reached out and cupped my hand to his face, awed that I was finally allowed this. We both reached at the same time and then we kissed, simply, chastely, reverently. It was as easy as breathing._

_He stood and took me by the hand and led me to my bedroom. There he unwrapped me slowly, taking off one piece of clothing, stealing kisses in between. My breath stilled, as he stroked his hand up my spine, fingers playing against my skin in such a way as if he had done this all of his life, as if we had known each other from lifetime to lifetime. I was lowered to the mattress and held close, as I shook and stammered, called his name and prayed to all of the gods I hadn't believed in until the world changed. We fell asleep in each other's arms, drifting, thinking we had fooled them, that we were secure. But then the first cursed dawn came. We felt the tremor in the air and heard the unseen speaker chant the words and before my eyes, the sun's rays touched John and he changed, changed into the hawk, wild and agitated, trying to fly on unfamiliar wings. It was a sight I have beheld every dawn since, only now I see it begin with the eyes of the wolf and feel the sorrow of the wolf as it changes into the rage of the man. It's sometimes more than I can bear. I have thought of ending it for us both. But how can I when I hold on to hope that I might touch him once more, hear his voice speak my name, feel his fingers card through my hair rather than through my fur?_

_For we are damned, John and I, always to be together, never to touch or speak or love, never to know each other as humans, flesh and blood turned to feathers and fur; they didn't even give us that._

_This will be my last entry. For tomorrow, for better or worse, tomorrow we either change the curse the gods wrought upon us or we die and end this miserable half-life. Wiggins has finally brought me word. _

_Tomorrow, in front of Magnussen, Janine and Mary we end this. _

_All is ready._


	2. The Thief

**A/N: So here is the start – I have used a lot of elements from both the movies and the series but I have also changed a lot of things – this is the way I wanted it to be:)**

**I hope you enjoy this version.**

**I owe many thanks to my lovely friends johnsarmylady and mattsloved1 for looking this over and putting up with me:)**

**I have borrowed a few words and sentences from the movie and the series. I do not own. Hmmmm. That's too bad:(**

2. The Thief

_Three months earlier_

There were rumours and sightings of a man and a huge black wolf that roamed the streets at night who healed the injured and protected the people. Others whispered of a tall, clever-minded man who walked in the light, with a large hawk on his shoulder. He wasn't afraid to talk to the common people or the Fey. He was respected but most stayed out of the way of the sharpness of his tongue.

With hope in the sound of their voices, folk whispered they had come to stop all the wrongdoing heaped upon the heads of the destitute; the petty crimes The Watch neither cared about, nor controlled. In the silence of the dark, when prayers are held tight to the heart, if a stray thought asked that these men and their beasts put a stop to the immoralities done by the Mage and his people, well, then no one was the wiser and no harm could fall upon someone for an idle thought.

No one connected the two men and their familiars to each other. Not until dawn broke the night of Bonfires and then only one there knew it for what it was.

In the abandoned house on the outskirts of the city centre, the thief Wiggins sat curled up and hunched, making himself as small as possible. The night sky had opened up and the rain, which had begun falling a few hours ago, was now hitting the ground and freezing on contact. At least it was just water and not anything deadly or magical, like sometimes happened in the summer. Many had come to seek shelter here, even if it was a known drug den, or perhaps because it was.

It was his turn to guard the door, make sure those who had come to lose themselves in the dream world of a drug induced stupor, were not disturbed. Leaning up against an inner wall, he was muttering and talking to himself. Petty criminal and sometime drug user, he often went by the name Wiggy. Some called him that because they thought he was as mad as a March hare. He mumbled and spoke out loud all of the time. Behind his back some called him Mouse, since he was small, light and could crawl in and out of any space, no matter how tight. He'd managed to get away from the Watch on many a raid by use of these skills. He didn't like Mouse much. He didn't think it was grand enough or struck fear into anyone.

He was an oddity. He didn't worship the gods, the way most did now days; hard not to when the gods walked the streets in broad view. He followed the old Christian ways of the Catholic Church, which had mostly gone out of fashion. It was the way he had been raised and it was one warm memory from his childhood. He could barely remember what it was like before the Change. He remembered the soft glow of light that put the dark at bay, vague memories of flickering, moving pictures on something called the telly. He remembered a loving embrace and hot food every night. He also remembered screams and fires and panic when things stopped working and the magic came, when the world shifted and science was mostly replaced by miracle. He didn't remember, or choose to remember, how his parents died. He did remember his sister being taken away by the Mage's men, led away for his own perverted uses to the fortress and palace that use to be the Tower. He did remember learning how to steal small trinkets from those well off and trade them. He did remember his first hit of the new street drug brought in by the Fey. He didn't remember when he received his last hit. It had been awhile and he was shaking, not just from the cold.

"I know I promised, Lord, never again. But I also know that You know what a weak-willed person I am. I ain't touched a drop in weeks, I'm certain, but really if this is to be my last night, surely You won't begrudge me. A little comfort in this lonely world, Lord?"

He shifted a bit trying to get into a more comfortable spot, perhaps warmer as well, when the door opened and someone came into the house. More than one. Two. One upright and one on four feet. These days you never knew what might walk in unannounced.

In case whatever was coming toward him was something not wanted, he turned his head to track it. He scrunched up and tried to be less of a target, but when he saw what came through, he let out a squeak of surprise and fear and automatically crossed himself. A large, black, shaggy dog was padding toward him, sniffing the ground. It stopped and lifted its head, staring where he was hidden. Its large ears perked and swivelled in his direction. He blinked and looked again.

"Dear God, Almighty! That's a wolf! Lord, if you let it eat me tonight, I may warm its belly, but it won't be much comfort to me!" His breath rushed out of his lungs and he couldn't move, shock held him in place. He had heard the stories making the rounds on the streets, but had scoffed at the idea of a man walking with a wolf. It appeared that he was mistaken.

So mesmerized by the wolf, he had forgot the man trailing after. As he came into sight, the movement snapped Wiggins from his stupor. He glanced quickly and had the quick impression of short, powerfully built and blonde. There seemed to be an air of calm that hung around the man as well. Not surprising. One could be calm and fearless when one had a wolf at their side.

The shorter man stepped closer and crouched down beside Wiggins, shifting the weight of the pack he carried upon his back.

"I'm looking for someone. Perhaps he is here."

Wiggins' mouth flapped open to speak and then he snapped it closed again, eyes darting back and forth from the man to the wolf.

The wolf had not stopped watching the thief, its eyes gleamed soft silver in the fairy lights shining through the broken windows. The man looked at the wolf. He leaned back a bit on his heels and stroked a hand though the wolf's rough hair. The wolf seemed to relax into the touch. In a fanciful sort of mood, Wiggins felt they spoke without words, for it abruptly sat on its haunches and looked oddly bored, as it stared around the room.

The man turned back to look at him.

"I am searching for a young man named Isaac Hudson. Is he here?"

With the wolf's eyes somewhere else and no longer on him, Wiggins felt a little braver.

"You ain't needed here. If there were such as Isaac around, he don't want you to see him."

The man cocked his head to the side and suddenly there emanated from him a feeling of danger. The man exuded power and mystery and Wiggins felt with a twinge that perhaps he should have taken him by the hand and led him straight to Hudson, maybe stopping for flowers along the way. Before he could say anything, the man reached out and grabbed him by the wrist. A light twist and sharp pain flared through Wiggins' arm.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"I asked you a question. I expect an answer. Is Isaac Hudson here or not? I am not a patient man."

"You broke my arm!"

"No, I merely sprained it. You'd know if I broke it." The wolf stood up again and came nearer to the little thief. It seemed a good deal bigger up close. A low growl emanated from deep within its chest, which was felt more than heard.

Wiggins gulped. "Upstairs. Second room on the right."

The same small but firm hand reached out and ruffled his hair. "There you go. That wasn't so bad, was it? You know you needn't worry. I'm not here to hurt Isaac."

"But my arm! It feels squishy! Is it supposed to feel squishy? You sure you didn't break it?"

"It's not broken." This was said with a hint of kindness; as if he really felt what he had done was distasteful, even if it had been necessary. "I used to be a doctor. I know how these things work."

"Most doctors I know don't do much else but hurt people."

"Yes, well. Times have changed. Maybe they will again."

And with that, the man left. The wolf trailed behind him, but not before it flicked an ear in Wiggins' direction and let out what sounded like an exasperated huff. It trotted up the stairs after the man.

"Lord, if I hadn't seen that with my own eyes." He shook his head, the movement jarring his arm enough to cause him to wince.

He thought about getting up to see what the man, and presumably the wolf, wanted with Isaac, but the pain radiating from his wrist was most distracting. He searched around beside him for the small pack he kept his few belongings in. He rummaged around and found an old scarf and wrapped it around his wrist to see if he could ease some of the pain.

By the time he finished, the man and the wolf, with Isaac in tow, were coming back down the stairs. Isaac, obviously heavily under the influence of the Fey drug, was muttering about being manhandled, but by the look of determination on the other's face, it was a losing battle.

"Your aunt is a good person and she needs your help. You are coming with me and you _will_ clean up your act and give her a hand or so help me you'll wish I had turned you over to the Watch."

"But Captain Watson…"

The man, Watson, stopped on the stairs and turned to face Isaac, who was swaying slightly on his feet. "Isaac, I'm not your Captain any more. I haven't been Captain of anything for several years." This was delivered in a rather matter of fact tone, but shadows played on his face, dark and thick. Wiggins, who was a curious man and saw things other did not, wondered what had happened to cause such grief in someone who seemed so sure, so in control and more than a little scary.

The wolf, waiting by Watson's side, nudged the man's hand as if telling him to get a move on. Watson looked down at the animal. He seemed to drift for a bit in thought as he once more ran his fingers through the coarse hair. He shook his head, as if clearing cobwebs of memories, and turned to continue down the stairs, Isaac trailing miserably behind. When Watson reached the bottom, he glanced over at Wiggins and frowned. He sighed and marched over to where he was still sitting, his eyes glanced at the makeshift wrap.

"What's your name?" he asked, unexpectedly.

"Wiggins, most call me Wiggy."

The man stooped down to him again. "Bill Wiggins? Some call you the Mouse?"

Wiggins nodded, reluctantly.

"Hmmm, I've heard of you Mr. Wiggins." Dark eyes stared at him. Wiggins felt he was being examined even more thoroughly than he had been the first time. "Tell me, are you as good as they say, crawling into tight spaces? Can you really break into anywhere?"

He nodded again, more cautiously, but was too afraid not to give an honest response. Watson seemed to come to a decision.

"Here," he held out a hand. "Come with me and I'll fix that."

Wiggins looked at the proffered hand and then grasped it with his uninjured one. Watson pulled him to his feet. He wondered at his sudden trust of this dangerous and strange man. The look in the Captain's eye seemed to hint at a challenge. _Come with me_, it seemed to say, _and you will see wonders_. As Wiggins was a bit mad already, he gave in to the impulse and took the offer. It was better than playing guard in a house full of addicts. He reached down and picked up his pack and thought some more. This man had said he was a doctor and part of him just wanted relief. He followed the men and wolf out. Watson opened the door and cautiously looked about.

"Okay. We have about 10 minutes before the Watch descends and we get swept up in a scheduled raid, so keep an eye out gentlemen and let's get the hell out of here." He pulled up the collar of his leather and wool coat, trying to stem the flood of water running off the roof from trickling down his neck. "Careful now. The roads are slick. I don't want to have to fix up more than a sprain."

They darted out as quickly as they could, as they scurried from corner to corner, hiding in the lee of the buildings. When they were far enough away, Watson relaxed a bit and they began to make better time. They still stuck to the shadows and out of the fairy lights as much as possible. The fairies would report them if they thought there was something suspicious going on. It wasn't just the Watch one had to be careful of. There were other things out there that could hurt you or make you wish you hadn't been born. Steady travel for about an hour or so brought them to an old run down building, which looked like it had once been flats. With another glance around, Watson knocked softly on the door. It was cracked open and a face appeared. There was a furtive conversation and the door opened fully. Wiggins could make out the figure of an older lady. He could see at one time she would have carried herself well, a gentle lady perhaps. Her carriage was still upright and proud, but her face was careworn. She spoke past the Captain when she saw her wayward nephew.

"Oh Isaac, what have you done now. Your mother, rest her soul, would be so sad to see you like this. Come in, come in. John, how can I thank you. I was that worried."

Watson leaned and let her hug him. "Careful now. I'm wet." But a small smile touched his lips to take out the sting of the abrupt words. "Do you have anything I can use to wrap a sprain? My friend here seems to have received an injury." The lady tsked and fussed but led the men and the wolf to a set of rooms at the back of the building. She scolded the wolf impartially as it shook itself and sprayed water over everything. "You'll be cleaning that up tomorrow." The wolf looked up at the woman and let its tongue dangle from its mouth. It seemed to be laughing at her. She turned and took in the surprised look on Wiggins' face. "Oh don't mind him. He's an old friend."

Once they were inside her rooms, she firmly closed the inner door. Isaac was directed to a back bedroom to 'sleep it off', while John and Wiggins were brought into the kitchen. She pushed the thief into a chair and bustled about getting bandages and water. Watson, meanwhile, scrubbed his hands. He held out his clean and dried hand and gazed steadily at the man in the chair. Unsure where this feeling of trust came from, Wiggins held out his injured wrist and let the man gently unwrap the scarf. His arm was carefully washed and dried and wrapped tight in a long piece of clean cloth. After tucking in the ends, the Captain nodded sharply and cleaned up the left over mess.

He then spoke to the old lady.

"Can we kip here tonight? It's near time and we won't make it back before dawn.

"Of course, dear. You old rooms are still clean as usual. You could sleep in Sherlock's old room and your friend here could use yours. I really wish you'd stay. It's better with you nearby."

A brief flair of loss crossed his features, but the stoic look was back just as quick on the Captain's face. He reached out and hugged the woman. Wiggins could just hear him murmur to her "Martha, you know it isn't safe. Magnussen knows we are back and it worries me greatly he hasn't made a move yet. We would be putting you in danger." He paused. "More danger than you already are. He knows about you."

Her face crinkled into a smile "He's the least scary thing I know. He wasn't married to my husband." A tentative smile tugged at the corners of the man's face. Wiggins was greatly intrigued. There was so much to see, so much going on between these two, he could read it all, a story played on their faces.

Watson glanced at Wiggins. "All right. You can sleep here for the night."

Wiggins reached out his good arm, "Why?"

Watson crinkled up his brow, "Why what?"

"Why did you sprain my wrist, only to fix it and why are you letting me stay here?'

"Because sometimes people are good," was all he said and he started to leave, when he paused. "Perhaps I am hoping you will do me a favour." He continued on as if he hadn't paused and the wolf, who had been dozing in front of the old wood stove, climbed to its feet and followed his master.

Wiggins picked up his pack and came behind, muttering under his breath, "You know I go where you send me, Lord, but this is one strange journey, even for me."

The two men and the wolf ascended the set of stairs and arrived in another flat. Watson, with the familiarity of someone who had lived in this space, set about lighting the oil lamp just inside the door. He made his way through the flat and lit several more.

"What, no fairy lights?" It seemed strange not to look at the little faces that peered out from the glass globes most kept in their homes these days.

Watson glanced at him, "No. Not here long enough to feed them and besides, I think it's cruel, keeping them caged. Wild things need to be free." His face grew thoughtful, before he shook himself and spoke once more. "Take this lamp and go up one more floor, you'll find a room with a bed. Mrs. Hudson keeps things neat and changes the sheet regularly. She lives in hope we'll come back. When you awake in the morning, I will most likely not be here, but if you run into my friend, tell him to ask if you'll help."

"Help with what?"

A crooked grin pulled at the man's mouth but in the shadows from the lamp, it did not appear to reach his eyes.

"I think I'll let him explain. Good night, Wiggins. Or I should say, good morning as it is almost upon us." With that he left and turned into another room, the wolf trotted after him. As it reached the threshold it turned back and gave Wiggins a measured stare, eerily like the one Watson had given him in the drug house. It flicked an ear and then left to follow the Captain.

"Curious and curiouser, Lord."

Questions circled in and out and settled in his brain. They would have to wait for the day. Wiggins found another set of stairs and followed them up to the other room. As promised, a warm bed awaited him. He didn't even pause to shuck off much besides his boots and his pack. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

John shut the bedroom door carefully behind him and turned the lock. He looked to see the wolf had already made its way onto the bed and was curled up amongst the pillows. A soft smile lit the man's face, this time making his eyes glow. "Made yourself comfortable, I see. You always were a hog when it came to the pillows." He put down the pack he'd been carrying onto a chair and began to undress. He was a bit hastier than usual. The rhythms of the rise and fall of the sun were ingrained into his very molecules and he could feel the turn of the earth as it carried them closer to dawn. His thoughts were already becoming muddled. He frowned as he thought about what he wanted to say. "I don't have time to write this down, so good luck meeting the fellow upstairs. I think I may have found our thief." He climbed naked onto the bed. The wolf whined and licked his face. "Shhh, not much longer now, love. We're that much closer to the end of this mess." The first tremor hit his muscles and he stiffened. A gasp clawed its way out of his throat and the wolf whined again. "It's never not painful! Christ!"

He bent his head and let the curse take him.


	3. The Day

**A/N: Thanks mattsloved1 and johnsarmylady for looking this over.**

**Usually disclaimers, yada, yada, etc.**

3. The Day

The sun was warm on Wiggins' face when he finally roused. He had one of the best night's sleep he'd had in a long time. He was comfortable and no one was trying to rob him of his few meagre possessions or slit his throat. Normally he would have slept with an eye toward someone coming into the room but there was something about this place that lulled him into a deeper slumber.

The light in the room wasn't what disturbed him however and neither did the dull ache in his wrist, which now that he was awake was demanding some attention. It was the odd noise coming from downstairs. A shriek or a cry, but it didn't sound human. It was a wild sound, like a bird. Underneath it was a deep rumble. Someone was speaking, but not the mad fellow, that doctor or captain or whatever he was, from last night. His voice was higher. It hadn't vibrated through his head like this one did. He rubbed his face, threw back the covers and slipped his shoes on. Having gone to bed fully clothed that was really all there was to it.

He crept down the stair, wary and nervous, and peered into the living room. There was no sign of the doctor. A taller, dark haired man stood near the table, his back to him. The deep voice spoke murmured words, which could just be made out.

"You are upset. You are always upset in the morning. I need to check first. I will let you out to fly just as soon as I speak to Mrs. Hudson."

Wiggins saw whom or rather what he was speaking to. A magnificent bird, a hawk he thought, was perched on the back of one of the chairs by the table. It was many shades of brown with hints of grey, black and gold accenting the feathers. The man was stroking and scratching the head, on the crown and around the eyes and beak. Large, dark eyes swept the room and when they fixed upon the figure in the door, it cried again, a voice both desolate and fierce, speaking of skies, the wind and clouds and loss, but also commanding. Wiggins thought the bird was telling the strange man to turn around, someone was here.

_What an odd thought._ He brushed it aside. The bird wasn't really telling the man. It was a bird, a hunting bird. Of course it would notice him there, observe the movement in the shadows. He really didn't have more time to think anything else, because the taller man whirled around.

"Who are you? Come out where I can see you. Slow and steady. Don't be stupid."

Wiggins entered the living room cautiously.

He got a better look at the man in the room. Dark, curly hair fell over silver eyes, the colour of which seemed to shift with the light, tall but not as tall as some, lean and hungry, but not for food. For knowledge, information and something else. Something was missing in this man. There was a bottomless ache, a hole. Something he had lost or caused to lose. There were endless depths of sorrow he tried to hide in his eyes. Wiggins was thinking all of these things furiously, wondering why, why did he have these thoughts about a stranger. There was also something about him that reminded him of the doctor, a similar loneliness, a similar fierce intensity, a similar agony.

"And who might you be?" A rather posh voice asked.

"Er, sorry your governorship, sir. They call me Wig."

"No, they don't."

He blushed. "Wiggy or okay, Mouse."

"But what is your name?"

"Wiggins, Bill Wiggins."

The man's eyes skimmed back and forth rapidly, glancing at his face and other parts, studying him. The long face finally settled into an expression of recognition. Like the other fellow, he had heard of him. The thief wasn't sure he liked that.

"Well Bill Wiggins, what are you doing in my flat? Does Mrs. Hudson know you are here?"

"Er, yeah, I was brought here last night. Against my will, I might add."

"Who was it?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Oh, good lord. Why must imbeciles always surround me? Who brought you here?"

"Small fellow. Mad he was, tetchy too. He sprained my wrist. Said I could kip here. I really need to go now." He began edging toward the stairs but was stopped. Not sure how it had happened but suddenly the man was standing in his space, blocking his way to the stair.

"You saw him? You spoke to him?" And the wild, hungry look intensified, craving and yearning, but not comforting, not a hunger to be satisfied by food and drink. It was dangerous, feral, like the look of a wolf denied nourishment, but of the soul not the gut.

"Yeah, sprained my wrist, he did."

The taller man backed down a bit, the fire in his eyes dampened as he realised where he was and that it was neither the time nor place. He waved his hand in the air dismissively.

"I'm sure he had cause. He never does things without cause. Never mind then. I will speak with Mrs. Hudson. You will wait here. Don't touch the bird. He's in a mood. He'll do more to you than a sprain."

Then he turned and headed down the stairs to the ground floor. Wiggins cocked his head and mentally shrugged. They were all insane here. "Lord, it was easier on the streets. At least there I recognized the mad ones _and_ stayed away from them. Just saying."

He looked back at the bird, which was watching him carefully. It raised its wings slightly and squawked and then shook itself.

"You and me both, bird."

Wiggins headed into the kitchen to see if there was any food. The table was covered with old, dusty equipment that looked like it came out of a lab or a doctor's workshop. He rummaged through the cupboards. There was an old style fridge in the corner, but since there was no longer anything like electricity he didn't bother looking in there. He had heard some of the richer families employed magic of the Fey to keep food cold, but that was a luxury most didn't have. The poor in this time and age got their ice in the winter not the summer. He wistfully remembered eating something called ice cream back in the day.

He wandered back out to the living room. By the fire there was a small kettle on a chimney crane. The fire was still burning brightly. Perhaps the tall man had stirred it up this morning. He found water in the kitchen in a barrel and filled the kettle. It would take time to heat. He was sure he'd seen bread on the side. He went out to cut some and brought it back into the other room. Sat in front of the fire, he popped the bread on a toasting fork he found and held it next to the glowing coals near the base of the fire, slowly turning it until it was browned up nicely. When the water boiled, he found a mug and some tea that didn't look too stale and brewed a cup. He sat back in the chair and munched at the toast. It was a bit dry but it was better food than he had most mornings. He could hear the bird behind him as it sorted through its feathers, preening and cleaning them, the odd rustling as it shook itself. He glanced over at it. The bird's head turned to watch him. He thought it looked hungry so he held out a piece of toast carefully and kept his fingers as far away from the sharp beak. The bird twisted and craned its neck at an impossible angle and made a little hop on the chair back, closer to the toast.

"So what's your story? The other guy had himself a wolf."

"Don't talk to him. And certainly don't feed him toast," came an exasperated sigh from behind him. The bird cried out, sounding put out when the toast was withdrawn. The man looked at the bird with fond irritation. "As much as you love toast, you can't eat it right now."

Wiggins sat up and saw the old lady from last night, Hudson, had followed him into the room.

"Here you go, dear," she said as she placed a tray down upon the table.

His nose was assaulted by the lovely odours of bacon and eggs and, "Oh please Lord, are those scones?"

Wiggins stood up, tossed his dry toast into the fire and moved to sit down at the table. The hawk chose that moment to spread his wings in a massive stretch and beat at the air. The little thief stopped where he was, shuffled his feet, his stomach rumbled at the tantalizing smells.

Mrs. Hudson loaded a plate and handed it to him. "Now dear, you mustn't mind him. He just needs to get outside and fly a bit. Sherlock, I checked and it's safe. The brownie said she was talking to Mrs. Turner's and there hasn't been much interest from the Watch for several days now. They are looking elsewhere. Let him out. He'll just get cranky." She patted the arm of the Sherlock fellow. He smiled at her, a warm smile that didn't quite look at home on his face, and held his arm out to the bird. The bird shrieked and glided toward the other man. It landed on the outstretched limb, onto a padded sleeve. Looking at the long, wicked claws wrapped around the man's arm he could see why. The bird was carried out to the landing and up the stairs. The tall man was back in a few moments without the bird and stood looking at the thief.

Uncomfortable under his intense gaze, Wiggins ignored it and continued to eat. He tried savouring the rich food but he was so hungry he just kept shovelling it in. The other man raised an eyebrow at his eating habits.

"So you are Bill Wiggins?"

"I said that didn't I?"

"You're a thief."

"Yeah, look the other guy was interested too, what's up with that? He said to tell you to ask if I'd help. You need something stole? 'Cause it'll cost you." Might as well lay down the rules hard and fast if he was going to get involved in any of this and he wasn't saying he was.

"The other fellow did, did he?" he drawled out, a hint of sarcasm peppering his voice.

"Yeah, what's his name, Watson? Walks like he's got a broom up his arse."

The man looked down at the ground, a shuttered look on his face, his eyes flicked back and forth rapidly. When he looked up again, the fierce light was back.

"You have questions."

"Uh, yeah. Where's the other fellow?"

"Not your concern. Next."

"Okay, uh, er, who are you?"

"The name is Sherlock Holmes. That's all you need to know for now."

"Okay, um. So now what?"

"Did the other fellow say why he wanted me to ask for your help?"

"Nope, he just asked me if I was the Wiggins who could crawl into small spaces or break into anywhere."

"And you said yes. You like to feel important. You like people to know that about you, don't you?"

"What if I do? Everyone's got something special about them. Me, it's breaking and entering."

Holmes looked like he was debating about what to say next. When he did speak it was the last thing Wiggins was expecting to be asked,

"What do you know about breaking into the Tower?"

Wiggins dropped his fork. The clatter of it hitting the plate rang through the heavy silence. A cold heaviness settled in his stomach and all the rich food seemed to curdle in an instant. Holmes knew, he didn't know how, but he knew.

"You're as mad as him, ain't you? Break into the Tower? Into Appledore? You're cracked, you are. No one can break in there."

"Ah, but I happen to know for a fact that you broke out of it."

"That's it. I'm out of here. I don't know how you know and I don't want to know. Thanks for the food, but I need to get my sorry arse back on the street, where it's safe and away from the likes of you lot."

Long fingers, strong and firm wrapped around his bicep. "Oh no, you don't. You will stay here and you will tell me what you know. Or I'll turn you into the Watch myself."

"Ha, that's a laugh. I saw your face and heard that old lady…"

"Mrs. Hudson."

"All right Mrs. Hudson, I heard her tell you they were keeping an eye out for you, so you ain't likely to turn me in."

"Perhaps not, but I know others who will. Interesting, don't you think? You were captured and imprisoned in Appledore. You escaped but you still hang about. Aren't you worried they'll find you?"

Wiggins looked miserably around the room and then back at Holmes. "Look, I know what they do there. I know if they wanted me bad enough, they'd come after me, but they ain't interested in me. That Mage, he's got other things on his mind." He paused and cocked his head, his own brown eyes swept up and down Holmes. "He'd be more interested in you than a lowly thief, wouldn't he?"

"Possibly. What makes you think so?"

"I deduce things, see. I know stuff about people. Just goes into my head, it does."

The other man rolled his eyes, but he didn't say anything for moment, and then, "What if I paid you? I can make it worth your while. I don't actually need you to break in. I just need you to tell me how you broke out."

"Nope."

"I can help you find out about your sister."

Eyes big and round looked half crazed at Holmes. "No, just no! That is not happening. She disappeared a long time ago and me knowing what happened to her ain't gonna bring her back. No!"

He looked down at the ground, his hands clenched at sides, his chest heaved. Then he looked back at Homes. "How'd you know? About my sister, how?"

"You aren't the only one who can _deduce_." A grin, not a nice one, flitted across the smug bastard's face. "All right, fine. You won't help. Is there anyone else you know of who could tell me these things? Anyone, beside you?"

Wiggins thought for a moment. There could be no harm in telling him. "No, no one 'cept me. I often wondered if it was a joke, they let me escape. Just to give others hope, like. But no."

Holmes face sank a little. He shrugged. "I guess we'll have to figure out something else."

The little thief watched the other man. Something made him ask, "Why do you want to break in for?"

"To kill the Mage of course."

"You're serious?"

"Yes."

A hope, a kindled flame of desire for things he couldn't have, a terrible, bright longing filled him and he almost couldn't breathe. He stared at the other man. _He's mad, Lord, plain and simple, but thank you for leading me to him._ "What do you need to know?"

The feeling of intensity he held inside was mirrored on Holmes' face. The tall man did a little half jump in the air and a fierce "Yes!" pulled itself out of his throat. "Ah, Wiggins! You are a marvel. I will owe you so much for this."

"Yeah, you'd better."

"Gather your things. We can't stay here again tonight. It isn't safe." He disappeared through the kitchen.

Wiggins nodded and ran up to get his pack. By the time he came back down, Holmes had also returned carrying a pack and holding several other smaller items he was shoving into the pockets, here and there.

"We shall go down and say goodbye to Mrs. Hudson. She'll have provision for us. We will then go to pay a visit to an old friend. Well, when I say friend…" Whilst he was talking he swept on a long wool coat and wrapped a blue scarf about his neck. "Let's go."

Wiggins sighed wistfully, looked at the cosy fire and the remains of his nice breakfast and followed after the man.

Mrs. Hudson met them with a large package of what the thief sincerely hoped was food in her hands. She passed it to Holmes, who placed it in his pack. A look of sorrow was on her face. "Must you leave so soon, Sherlock? You just got here."

"I'm sorry, but it isn't safe for us to stay here and you know it." He paused and opened his mouth as if to say something. She hugged him tight, which prevented him from speaking. He carefully wrapped his long arms about her and squeezed back gently.

"Don't you dare say goodbye, Sherlock Holmes. You come back when you can. Get this nasty business sorted." She reached up and kissed his cheek. "That is for John." She pecked the other. "And that is for you. Look after each other."

He smiled, a tight smile, "We always do."

She patted his cheek, one last touch. "Just be careful. You've been seen out about too much, lately."

The man just smirked and left the building, trailed most glumly by the thief.

Puddles from the rain the night before, lay on the pavement, bits of blue sky reflected in them. Holmes looked up, lifted his fingers to his lips and blew a sharp whistle. Up high in the sky a tiny speck could be seen. It began to circle and grew bigger every second. Just as Wiggins realised it was the hawk, there was a whoosh of sound and he instinctively ducked his head to avoid being buffeted by the edge of a wing.

He glared at the hawk now perched on the other's arm again, the coat also padded. Attached to the bird's feet were jesses, which Holmes carefully wrapped in his hand. A fond look crossed the man's face, gentle and loving, out of character with most things the thief had seen regarding him.

"Did you have a good flight?" The bird cried out once, his beak open, looking like he was panting.

The bird turned and looked at Wiggins with bright eyes and then clacked its beak at him. It bobbed its head up and down as if in greeting. Whilst it was occupied with the thief, Holmes pulled a hood out of the coat pocket opposite and deftly hooded the bird. Wiggins raised his eyebrows.

Holmes didn't say anything, just continued fastening the hood.

"He doesn't like me much."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm the one who doesn't like you."

"Good to know."

They began walking out into the city, heading north, sticking to the back alleyways and side streets. The day was fine so there were many out and about, some human, some not. They tried to avoid contact with most of the pedestrians.

They stopped near a corner where a tall, willowy looking creature stood. Holmes told him to wait and he went up to it. Wiggins could see them speak but couldn't make out what they said. A small package was removed from the large coat, handed to the creature and Holmes walked back to where Wiggins waited.

'This way," he said.

"Was that an Ent?"

Holmes turned and looked at him, his face riddled with scorn. "A what?"

"An Ent. Me dad, he read me a story about little furry footed creatures. There were talking trees in it, called Ents. I liked them. There are so many new creatures these days, I just wondered."

"Not an Ent. Ents aren't real. A woodwife. The man I am looking for is married to one. There aren't many in London. Too polluted, even now. The woodwives prefer the countryside, but they are a tight knit community and know one another. I was able to discover where the man I am looking for is living."

"Looked like a guy. Why are they called woodwives?"

"They are actually gender neutral and you talk too much. Shut up."

"So this guy you know is married to a woodwife who isn't a he or a she? Huh."

Holmes glared at him

"Not judging!" Wiggins held up his hands. "Takes all kinds."

Another glare, so he trailed along in silence.

For about two blocks.

"How much farther?" Silence met him again.

They tramped across what felt like half of the city until they came to some row houses with what at one time had been uniform fronts, but had been decorated and adapted since the Change. The variety of people living in London these days had brought with them their own styles and design by whatever denizen lived in them now. Some were plain but some were beautiful with wild colours or strange attachments. Holmes walked up to the third one, the front door covered in moss and bark and knocked.

It was answered by a surly looking bearded man, whose face broke into a smile at the sight of Holmes.

"Holmes! You're still alive! Come in, come in. What the hell are you doing here? Where have you been? How did you escape the city? We hadn't heard from you these past two years!" He moved as if he would hug the other man, but a look from Holmes and the sight of the hawk on his arm, changed his mind.

They were ushered into the house and lead to the back where another of the willowy creatures was sitting at a small kitchen table. The bearded man went up to it and whispered something. It stood and bowed and then quietly left through the back door.

Holmes didn't bother introducing the thief.

The man served them fresh water, which Wiggins gulped down greedily and sat them down at the table and started speaking rapidly. "I knew you were still alive. I told Lestrade, but he didn't believe me, but then we heard rumours. People said they spotted you. What the hell are you doing back here? You know the Watch would love to find you. Is John with you? We haven't seen him since you left."

"In a manner of speaking, he's with me. I've no time to go into details. Anderson, be quiet a minute and listen. I need to speak with Lestrade. I can't approach him directly, but you can. Can you get word to him?"

"Why yes, of course. But…"

"The less you know the better. I can't explain now, but some day. I can't stay long. Tell Lestrade to meet me at noon, three days from now, near the old Vauxhall Arches. He'll know where exactly."

"All right, but I don't like it, Sherlock. He won't like it, either. You are going to get caught and then what?"

Holmes just nodded at him and they left out the back door through the little garden. The woodwife was standing quietly in the corner, its face turned toward the sun. The two men ignored it, went through the little gate in the garden fence and made their way back toward the streets.

They hadn't gone far when Sherlock grabbed him by the arms and pulled him into the shadow of a nearby building. The thief opened his mouth to protest when Sherlock hissed in his ear. "Quiet!" The hawk ruffled his feathers irritably. They melted further in, down an alley and behind an old rusted skip. Just in time as a group of uniformed and armed men trooped by.

Wiggins swore silently. And then started praying feverously, whispering inaudibly, "Lord, please, if you love me, do not let them find us."

"Hush!" The men marched by in ridged formation, staring straight ahead. When they had disappeared from sight there was a palpable feeling of relief. Holmes looked quickly up and down the alleyway. "This way." He walked briskly in the opposite direction.

They wandered for what seemed like hours. The day was rapidly disappearing. Holmes began to look for someplace to settle for the night. The shadows of the afternoon were getting longer and Holmes glancing up at the sky as if trying to see the sun.

Finally, he led them into an old abandon building. He settled the hawk on the banister of a set of crumbling stairs. He disappeared into the back of the building and returned almost right away.

"There are two rooms back here that will do. One for you and one for me and the hawk." He rummaged in the pack and handed Wiggins the package of food. "You take this and do not eat it all." He paused, the silver eyes bore into the younger man's. "My friend John will show up here tonight and he will be hungry. Make sure you save him some. And here," he drew out a large flask. "Water. Also use it sparingly. I can get us more but it's not always easy."

He turned abruptly, his coat billowed out behind and showed Wiggins where he could sleep for the night. There was a mouldering old chair in the room and little else. He eyed it askance and set his pack down on the floor. He turned to ask how Watson would know where they were, but the other man had closed the door and left. With a sigh, he sat in the chair. It wasn't the most comfortable place but it was better than some.

"Lord, I am sure you must have a reason for the things you do to me. I just wish you would think to fill me in now and then on what my purpose in all this is." He rooted through the package of food, hunger made his stomach grumble, having not eaten since the morning. He carefully tallied up what was there and only took a small portion, some bread and cheese and an apple. He had lived on the streets long enough to know how to hoard food, despite what Holmes might think. He didn't know what to do with Watson's share. He stood and went to the door and opened it. He peered up and down the hall and went to the door of the other room. He knocked. The door was flung open.

"What?"

"Well I thought you'd likely see your friend before I would, so here's his share for tonight."

Holmes looked at him strangely and then took the food. He started to close the door, but before he did he said, "It would be best if you did not disturb me for the rest of the night." And shut the door firmly in his face. With a shrug he turned and headed back to the little room. After eating his share and drinking some water, he curled up in the shabby chair, an old blanket from his pack pulled over him. He was asleep in minutes.

Sometime later, in the middle of the night, he sat up straight, his heart pounding. An unearthly sound filled the night and pulled him out of his dreams. It came again. It was the sound of a wolf calling out to the dark, a voice both desolate and fierce, speaking of the dark, the moon and wind and loss. It reminded him of the wild cries of the hawk that had awakened him that morning.


	4. The Night

**A/N: Little bit of a shorter chapter:)**

**Thanks to mattie and JAL for looking it over once again:)**

4. The Night

He sat on a throne. It wasn't a real throne. It was a large, overstuffed chair that was steeped in comfort, but looked intimidating and really that was the whole point. Dark, rich, wine-coloured leather and brass studs, covered in fur from beasts that twenty years ago had been considered to be myth.

He'd had his slaves pull several of the original thrones out from the displays and glass cases and storage when he had first taken over the former Tower of London. He had tried them, but they really hadn't suited. Uncomfortable things. He had thought about moving into the Palace as well but he liked the idea of playing the feudal King, controlling his people from the old battlements, watching the waterways. Besides the Palace had burned to the ground shortly after he came to power, in one of the first attacks against the city by outside forces. The Tower, he had rechristened as Appledore, was at least defensible. So here he was. Seated and steeped in history. It seemed appropriate. He had always liked history. He had studied it and learned how to manoeuvere and manipulate from some of the greatest minds in the world.

And he kept it all in his head. He knew the moves and countermoves. He knew the how and when and why the great kings had been defeated. He knew that an image and rumour were bigger influences than the truth and that the truth could be manipulated to sway the people. They had been ignorant fools when all he was doing in the old days was running a media empire. In this day and age they were even more ignorant, more scared of the dark and the beast. Looking for a leader who could control them and protect them and to make their decisions for them.

And it was so easy.

He had the reputation.

He had the control.

And he didn't even have to lift a finger.

That's why one had subordinates.

He looked over the rim of his glasses. There was a man who knew how to make them still, someone who had thought to stock up on the supplies that had been freely available during the days of confusion and looting, someone who had thought ahead. He used magic now to grind the lenses, but they were just as good as in the days before.

He didn't actually need glasses at all, but he felt they gave him a wise and benevolent look.

For those times he felt it imperative he look wise and benevolent.

Glasses were also a useful prop, to remove and study, to hold and caress. He gently placed them upon his face and looked carefully over the rims. He steepled his hands together and thought about the information he had received this morning.

He had known they were back in the city. He had known for a while. But he had bided his time to see where they were going and what they had planned.

He cleared his throat.

"Mary," he called softly, his voice reminiscent of the quiet slide of the snake in the shadow of a rock, one you walked by unaware.

"Come here, Mary."

A small shadow detached from the wall nearest the door. He marveled once again at the way she glided toward him. If he hadn't been paying attention or had been unaware she was there, he would have missed the small assassin as she crept toward him on the throne.

"Come here. There you are. Good girl. I have a surprise for you."

Beautiful dark eyes looked up at him.

"He's come back to London, Mary. Would you like to have him back? Would you like to have him for your own again?"

A tilt of the head.

"Well then, how about I let you wander about the city? You find him. Find him and the other and you can have him. But," and he wagged a finger at her. "But you must bring them back to me first. I want Holmes and you, you my pet, you can have your John again. For your very own. To do with as you wish."

Mary slinked forward and sat at his feet. He reached down and ran his fingers over her head and chucked her under her chin. He then grabbed the back of her neck, hard. A mewl of sound escaped from her mouth, but that was all. She knew better than show anything else. It would be so much worse.

"And then Mary, you can punish him for leaving you. Won't that be nice? And maybe if you're a very good girl, I'll give you Holmes, too. When I'm done with him. Now then, off you go."

Mary rose gracefully to her feet and turned to leave.

"Oh and my dear? Happy hunting."

The serval opened her mouth and panted, tail lashing as she thought about tracking down her wayward husband.

"You can come out too, my dear. I know you are there." Another figure removed themselves from the shadows.

"You must be tired after all of the hard work you've had to do for me today. Now come and sit here by my feet and tell me about your day. Hmmm? I hope you have good news for me." He already knew what she had done and where she had been but he did so like to listen to the lilt of her voice.

The pretty brunette sat as gracefully as the wild cat had and looked up at the man she served. "Of course I do, sir."

oOo

Wiggins lay down and started to drift back to sleep when his eyes snapped back open. He heard the howl again, closer. It cut him to his heart, such a lonely, fearful sound.

Although Holmes had told him not to disturb him, he thought he should check. He stood and made his way to the door, where he dithered. Then, squaring his shoulders, he pulled on the door.

A figure stood in the hallway, his hand ready to knock upon the door just flung open. Wiggins let out a little shriek.

It wasn't Holmes. There was enough light from the moonlight shining through the windows in the hall to pick out blond and grey glints in the hair of Watson.

Wiggins gaped at him.

"What the hell is going on? Where did you come from and how did you find us?"

The look of amusement and slight surprise crossed Watson's face.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Sherlock told me you were here. I came to see how the wrist was." A small look of shame lingered at the corners of his mouth and eyes. At least that's what Wiggins told himself.

"Yeah, it's all right, I guess." In fact it was beginning to ache a bit.

Watson tilted his head and looked thoughtful. "Come with me."

They walked down to the other room and Wiggins watched as Watson bustled about, taking small packages out of the pack on the floor and adding something to an old tin camping mug. There was a small fire in the fireplace and a pot of water was steaming over it. With a scrap of cloth he poured the water from the pot into the mug and set them on the dusty floor. A quick rummage in the pack again produced a jar of something dark and runny, which was also added. He passed the whole thing to Wiggins and said, "Here, try this."

"What is it?" A suspicious look crossed Wiggins' face.

"It's willow bark tea. It's one of the remedies from the ancient days that we used before analgesics."

"Oh?"

"Ummm, yeah, doctors, healers now, I guess. Funny how we've reverted to some of the old names with the descent to the dark ages." His tone was dry and slightly mocking. "Fortunately, there's still a need for doctors of skill. Unfortunately anyone can set up a shop and hand out herbs and Fey medicine and call their selves a healer."

Wiggins sniffed at the mug of liquid and took a tentative sip. It was a bit bitter, but had been sweetened with something, probably whatever was in that jar. "Honey?" he asked, surprise replacing suspicion.

He could just make out Watson's smile. "Yes, Sherlock likes to keep bees, when we are…well when we aren't in London." The sorrow that hovered ever present was there again, but then it was replaced with a soft grin. "Come and sit with me for a bit. Tell me what you two where up to today. Sherlock didn't leave much in his notes."

"Notes?"

"Er, yes. We don't really see each other much, to talk, so we leave notes. I didn't get a chance to last night, so I hope he wasn't too much of a prick when you spoke to him yesterday."

Wiggins was sorting the information that was coming in, in his head. He was coming to some rather odd conclusions, but was dismissing them out of hand as being too strange even for him.

"So how do you find each other, then? If you're not together and off on your own?"

"Oh well, you know. Here, sit down here. I've managed to build up a nice fire. There was an old fireplace here and the chimney's not too blocked. The air is nice enough tonight so we can leave the window open. I was rather surprised to see glass still intact, but trust Sherlock to find a place like this."

There was warmth and affection in his speech. He cared a great deal for the tall, dark man. But there were also secrets and hidden stories woven through the pitch of his voice as well. Something was itching at Wiggins. Something obvious that he couldn't quite see.

Watson looked into the fire, a mug of his own cradled in his hands. Wiggins continued to sip at his own drink. He mused on the fact that the other man had not answered his question. He let it go for now.

The howl came again this time right outside the window. Watson placed his mug on the floor and went to the open window.

"You need to stop that now. You're bothering our guest." He then patted the ledge and a dark shape bounded through and landed at his feet. The wolf seemed even fiercer looking. Silver eyes peered at Wiggins and it huffed at him, but then he turned and ignored the thief. It looked up at Watson. Wiggins' eyebrows shot up as he saw the wolf wag its tail through the dirt and debris on the floor and then sit, looking up expectantly at John.

"Well I do have some food for you, git, but you could have found your own. You are much too lazy sometimes. You need to do your own hunting. Help to supplement what we have." He sat and reached over to where he had left the food Wiggins had given Sherlock earlier. He tore the bread and cheese in half and gave it to the wolf. It took it from his hand, daintily and then wagged his tail for more. Watson laughed, a chuckle, and took the apple and cut it in half with a pocketknife out of the pack and held it out. "He likes apples." He wasn't really speaking to Wiggins. There was a level of fondness in his voice that was almost embarrassing, almost intimate, to hear. Like he was watching something private. He wondered if the two of them saw much of people in their day-to-day lives. He wondered if Holmes and the bird were the same. They all seemed terribly lonely and out of practice with simple conversation, as if they'd spent so much time alone they'd forgotten how. He wondered why Holmes and Watson just didn't travel together more often, but he supposed one got use to the solitude, the quiet. And maybe they didn't really get along.

Watson sat upon the floor on a dark, oddly shaped blanket. The wolf yawned wide and long, its tongue curling up and then it shuffled down until it was laying beside Watson, its head on his lap. He lifted his hand and stroked through the fur. "You must be tired," he said, softly. Wiggins must have grunted or something, because the other' eyes were on him. "He doesn't sleep much. Never has. Never did, not even before…" He stopped and turned his head looking down and away from Wiggins into the dark, lips pursed.

"Before what?"

Watson turned to look at him and said nothing for the longest time. His eyes glittered in the firelight. "You need to get yourself to bed and sleep. You've probably got some travelling to do tomorrow with Sherlock. Morning comes early."

Curious, but not wanting to push his luck, he stood and made his way back to the room he had been sleeping in. He thought about what he had learned and what he hadn't from talking to Watson. It seemed there were more questions than answers. He tried to get comfortable in his chair. It wasn't that it wasn't comfortable. It was that something was bothering him.

He was just beginning to drift off when he thought about what it was. It was little things, small details that others might not notice. The pack that John had been using was the same pack he had had the night he'd sprained his wrist. But it was also the same pack Sherlock had and the blanket he had been lying on wasn't a blanket but Holmes' greatcoat.

"I am getting slow not to have noticed before. It's all very strange. Lord, pardon me for saying, but what the hell is going on? And why must I be included in all of these oddities?" He sighed and curled up again and was soon asleep.

oOo

Outside of the flat Sherlock and John had lived in, a small hunting cat sat upon her haunches in the gloom of a side street and watched. There was no movement from the upper windows.

Looking carefully around, she determined no one else was watching the area. She crossed the street, avoiding the light from the fairies. She hunted around the doorstep and sniffed, cautiously, carefully and beside the stronger odour of the woman who used to take care of them, she could detect traces of the two men she was searching for. Fresh scents. There was someone new as well, someone unfamiliar. She learned his scent and committed it to memory.

Something caught her eye, something caught in a crack in the old pavement. She approached it. A feather. It screamed at her a name she hadn't been able to speak for two years, ever since she had been turned into a serval as punishment for letting John escape with Sherlock.

It was his, his feather. She sniffed the familiar and tantalizing scent of her former mate. Her tongue came out and gave it a lick. Saliva gathered in her mouth and a thrill shot through her. Her human voice and instincts warred with that of the cat's but both seemed to say _Mine, mine, mine to have, mine to keep._

_Mine to devour._


	5. The Hawk

**A/N: Thanks mattsloved1 and johnsarmylady for general 'hey you have a typo!' fixes and all around Britpickinesss:D**

5. The Hawk

The weather had cooled considerably the past two nights. Frost was definitely in the air and had arrived with a bite and growl. The moon had a distinctive ring around it, a pale and fragile shell of ice crystals in the air. They were getting closer to the time of the year when snow arrived, gracefully falling from the sky in a hypnotic dance. The elegance of drifting snow would be belied by its cruel and tenacious grip. Rushing ahead of it, announcing its coming was the smell, sharp and metallic. London received more snow since the change. Wiggins remembered fondly when he had looked forward to snow. Not now. Things came into the city with the snow, creatures that liked the misery and cold and they weren't the only ones to become hungry. Starvation was a real possibility for most who lived here.

Mingled in the same frosty air were wisps of burning wood. It was Bonfire night. Even after the change, Londoners, and perhaps all of England, still took time on November the fifth and lit bonfires. Now not so much in remembrance of the almost lethal attempt on a king and the House of Lords but because it was the time of year the change had occurred. No one was sure if it had actually happened in November as things had changed gradually but it was close enough to the actual date that it was woven into the remembering. Now the lighting of bonfires was a tad darker. There were some who lit the fires as a reminder that many had died in the years following and that they were now living in a second Dark Age. There were some out tonight who didn't appreciate the wonders that had replaced a modern and technological society. A cult of the past had sprung up and this night was theirs as much as anyone else's. To some, ritual and sacrifice were tied up into the burning of wood and effigies were replaced by something more sinister.

After two days of travelling by day, this time the small group was travelling at night. Normally they holed up and rested, but if something had happened to change the routine, Wiggins didn't know what it was. Not the best time to change routine. Maybe Holmes, who had been stopping along the way to speak to various personages, human or not, had taken far longer to reach the vicinity of the Vauxhall Arches. Maybe Watson wanted to travel for a change. Loss of time would be his first guess, London was a big place and it was hard to get around quickly but they hadn't been so far that it should take three days to get there. Granted they weren't to meet this Lestrade person until the third day, but still Wiggins wasn't sure they were going to get there on time.

The two men moved swiftly and carefully, stayed to darkened streets and checked behind them now and then. Tagging along after Watson, who walked with a determined military stride, these thoughts and more were ricocheting around Wiggins' head. Thoughts about whom and what Holmes and Watson really were had been tangling his brain for the last few days. Should what he believed, what he thought to be true, be broached? He was having a massive internal debate with God about it, but God wasn't responding. He had lots of time to think these last few days. He had watched the two men closely and separately; different they were, as different as shade and sun, but connected like the two. There was a certain way they had of looking for the other that was unmistakable, even though Wiggins had not once seen the human version together in the same room.

The human version. There was the rub.

He thoroughly believed that the two men were under a spell of enchantment. That's the way his father would have said it when he read bedtime stories. 'The princess was under a spell of enchantment. The forest was under a spell of enchantment. A dark spell of enchantment permeated the castle.' How else to explain the sudden disappearances of one or the other? Holmes was only around in the light and Watson the dark. The wolf and the bird vanished and were also never together. There was only one conclusion to be made and as farfetched as it might seem the two men were more than connected to the two animals, they were the two animals. Holmes was the dark furred, proud wolf who had the same eyes and huffy manner and Watson was the fierce hawk.

After about five streets and the third audible sigh, Watson turned and looked at Wiggins.

"What is the matter? You've been shooting me funny looks and huffing loudly."

Wiggins gulped, shook his head and walked past where Watson was standing.

"Nothing," he muttered.

It was Watson's turn to exhale. He also shook his head and then walked hurriedly to catch up with the other man. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but not quite how to start the conversation. Finally after a few more steps he said, "I told Sherlock you'd figure it out. You can't wander around following someone without putting two and two together." He placed a hand on Wiggins' arm. "You know, right? It's okay. It's not actually a secret. It's just not loudly proclaimed and we just don't go around telling everyone."

"Telling everyone what?" Wiggins wasn't sure if he really wanted confirmation. It seemed like something private between the two men and something chilling. They must have seriously pissed someone off to be cursed like this. He figured it must be a curse. It probably was a curse. And he was fairly certain he knew who had done the deed, who had uttered the words or called on dark powers to cause it to happen. He paused and turned to Watson. "Look, I don't want to know. I think what I think and I keep it buried deep inside. If you tell me, if it's true, I will be afraid and I already am scared about this mad quest or thing you two are on. So don't tell me. I like the dark and not knowing. It keeps things covered and safe."

Watson looked at him strangely, intently. "But nothing grows in the dark. You can't see your way and you stumble around. Perhaps you cause injury to yourself or to someone else if you don't know the truth."

"Works for me, so let's leave it at that. I'm not saying I don't want to ever know what the hell this is all about. Just, just not right now, okay? I'm not a brave person and things like this give me the willies."

A slow, sharp nod and Watson turned and continued walking. Wiggins noticed he was clenching his fists. Maybe he wanted to unburden his soul but Wiggins wasn't ready to carry that weight just yet.

A furry shape bounded up to Watson as they rounded a corner and Wiggins let out a rather piercing shriek. Watson shushed him and let the wolf place paws on his shoulders and give Watson's face a quick lick. His tongue lolled out the side of his mouth and his head titled to the side was comical. Watson broke out into a real laugh, a pure joy at the antics of the creature.

"What is it? Did you find something?"

The wolf got down and tilted his head toward his friend and huffed deeply. He then turned and trotted off around the corner.

The two men followed behind, Wiggins curious as to what this was all about.

"He sometimes finds things he wants me to see. Whatever it is has him excited. That doesn't usually happen. He's fairly serious."

Nodding like he understood, Wiggins followed.

The wolf led them to an alleyway about halfway down the street. They saw the end of his tail disappear. Pausing to think a minute, Watson dropped the pack onto the ground and rummaged around. He pulled out a gun.

"Wow!" breathed Wiggins. "I didn't know they still had those. I thought the magic made them harder to use! Where did you get it?"

Watson looked at him and frowned. "If I told you, you might not want to come with us, so let's leave it be for now shall we?"

A shrug and the two men continued their journey into the alley.

The wolf could just be seen in the gloom, the light from the fairies not quite reaching where it stood.

Watson crouched down where the wolf was waiting.

"It's a brownie," he said "It's hurt." The wolf wagged its tail like he had done something marvellous and John gave him an absent pat as he reached into his pack for his med kit. It was the most dog-like Wiggins had ever seen the animal

He placed a soft piece of cloth on the ground and transferred the brownie to it. He next took out a candle and some matches and lit it, letting wax drip onto the ground. The candle was jammed into the soft wax puddle upon the ground and he held it there until it stood. He bent over the brownie. "Hmmm. Unusual to see one out and about at night. What happened? It's all scratched and cut up." He spoke to it in quiet, calm tones, letting the brownie know he wasn't going to hurt it. The wolf leaned over and gave a sniff and then turned his head and appeared disinterested now that Watson was taking care of it. He lay down at Watson's side, his head on his paws and closed his eyes, bored now the excitement was past.

A bottle of water came out of the pack next and another cloth. Watson carefully washed the brownie's wounds. He next rummaged around and produced a small bag. A faint glow emanated from it. Wiggins' eyebrows shot up.

"Hey! That's fairy dust! You carry that around?"

"Yes, but it's purer than the crap you've taken. It would kill a human in this form. I use it on magical creatures when we find them."

"Why? Why not just leave them? They ain't human or nothin'. You know, it's like nature and stuff."

Watson sat back on his heels and looked stonily at the younger man. "I am a doctor. I help those in need. Don't you dare suggest I leave this poor brownie to suffer when I can help him. And it shouldn't matter whether it's human or not." His face softened slightly and his voice lost some of the stern edge. "Beside, helping the fair folk comes in handy. They are very grateful and treat you well if you do the same. That's why he," indicating the wolf, "brought me here. Otherwise he probably wouldn't care much. He knows I do, though."

Properly chastised Wiggins kept quiet and watched the doctor work. It was sort of fascinating to see what Watson was doing. After the injuries were cleaned, a few grains of dust were placed in a small cup of water and administered to the brownie. It became more alert and less pained looking as it spoke to Watson, its overly large bright eyes never leaving the man's face. It shook its head and then whispered something to him.

Watson's face changed from polite interest to puzzlement and then to concern. He gently placed the brownie back on the ground and quickly repacked the bag. The brownie, injuries healed by the dust, scurried off down the alley and disappeared. The wolf picked up some of the anxiety that was rolling off of Watson and stood suddenly, facing the entrance to the alley. A growl, hackles raised, he took a step forward.

Watson grabbed the wolf by the scruff. "No! Get back."

Wiggins not sure what the hell was going on asked. "What is it?"

"It's a trap."

Just as the words flew out of his mouth, Wiggins felt a sharp sting on his neck. He lifted his hand and pulled out a barbed dart.

Puzzled thoughts followed him down to the ground as he collapsed and darkness over took him.

oOo

Something wet was touching his ear, cold and wet and it made a snuffing noise. It was bringing him out of a most delicious dream.

"No, I don't want to get up." He rolled over and hunched down into his coat. He didn't even have time to complete the move, as something grabbed onto his coat and shook. A low, snarling sound landed in his ear. He batted a hand at it and felt warm fur. Something clicked slowly in his brain.

He turned back over and squinted. There was bright light coming from somewhere above him and it hurt his eyes. A furry shape was huffing warm, meaty breath in his face. If a wolf could glare and look impatient at the same time, this one surely could.

"Oy! Stop! I'm awake." He sat up, a little too abruptly, his head pounded. "What the hell happened?" Now that he had Wiggins' attention, the wolf pawed at him some more and whined, sat upon his haunches and stared at Wiggins, as if those silver eyes could force him to move.

Somehow he had been dragged out under a street lamp, the fairies were gathered in one spot, tapping on the glass with their little fists and trying to get his attention. He could just make out their high, squeaky voices on the edge of his hearing, as they demanded to be released from their prison. Scrapped and bruised, he wondered if it would hurt more in the morning. A quick glance around for Watson, but he was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is he?" he asked the wolf. "Oh yeah, sure, I'm left with the one who can't communicate." He got up to his feet shakily and looked around some more. The pack the doctor always carried was on the ground at his feet as well as his own. They looked a bit wet and muddy. The wolf must have dragged them out as well.

"What's going on, Wolf?" He refused to say the name that floated on his lips. "Where's Watson?"

The wolf whined again and began trotting away from the thief. He stopped and turned and flicked an ear at him because Wiggins hadn't moved. An irritated huff crossed the wolf's face as if he couldn't believe how stupid the thief was.

"Oh, fuck," he muttered. "Sorry Lord, but sometimes there comes a time and a place for swearing and this, this is just one of those times. I have no idea what is going on. I assume you do."

He reached down, picked up the packs and hurried after the wolf. They jogged along for a long time; the wolf every now and then sniffed the ground and took them in an unexpected direction. Abruptly he stopped, panted and growled. Then he shot off into the dark without even a glimpse at Wiggins. Tearing off after the animal, he tried his best to keep up with it. Afraid he had lost him in the dark, he jumped when he appeared out of nowhere, huffed at him and dashed away. Led to a small patch of greenery, the formal, tended parks of the old days now encroached and swallowed up pieces of the city. Not far from where they had been assaulted, he stared at the sight before him. In the middle of the park, a crowd had gathered, all standing around an unlit bonfire. Faint cheers and catcalls could be heard.

The wolf raced into the crowd and Wiggins followed, elbowing aside people as he passed. They reached the edge of the circle, which was far back from the pile of wood. A man was approaching the mound carrying a flaming torch, which he threw in. The torch flew gracefully through the air, leaving a glowing trail against his eyes and landed with a thud. The wood, a bit damp from the weather, smouldered and didn't catch right away, but after a few minutes, it began to burn.

As the flames grew, Wiggins could hear faint cries coming from under the wood. "Oh, dear Lord, no!" The wolf sprang forward and without hesitation darted in under the wood, Wiggins closely behind. The wolf crouched low and with a twist of his head, latched onto a leg just seen under the pile. Sparks and embers were falling around them and landed upon fur and material with equal glee. The heat and smoke were increasing and it wouldn't take long before it would be too hot to get the man out. Wiggins reached past the wolf's head and grabbed the other leg of John Watson, ignoring the kiss and sting of greedy flames searing his hands. Together, the two of them pulled him safely from the fire. There was a feeble turn of his head and some weak coughing and Watson lay still.

The crowd gathered around was muttering angrily. Wiggins looked up and saw they were getting closer. One man stepped forward, the man who had tossed the torch. "You dare interrupt us? Do you realize that this…this _thing_ is an abomination! He is cursed and must be put to death."

Wiggins stood, hands out in a placating gesture and with a shaky voice tried, to calm the man.

"He didn't choose this, it chose him. Would you punish someone who had a curse thrust upon him? That would be like punishing someone for being born blind or who lost a leg in an accident. He can't control it!"

"He is evil and tainted by malevolent powers. He must die. And you shall join him."

The crowd surged forward but was abruptly stopped by sudden movement as a group of smallish creatures scrambled through the crowd and clambered over the man on the ground. Wiggins watched as they stood over and around the still form, small, sharp teeth barred.

"Brownies! Well I never. Lord, you move mysteriously.""

Standing in front of the brownies Wiggins and Watson, the wolf growled softly and showed his teeth as he paced forward, the sounds coming from his throat letting all know he'd rip out theirs if they came close.

The people on the fringe of the crowd started slipping away and even their leader was giving the growing crowd of brownies a cautious look. Soon it wasn't just brownies, other fair folk joined in, leprechauns, wights, fairies, small silvery creatures Wiggins had never seen before. Larger creatures were joining in until there were as many, if not more, than the humans.

The crowd was dispersing rapidly and soon only the leader and a few of his followers were left. Wiggins took a step forward as did the wolf and the remaining humans were gone, but with glances over their shoulders as they hurried off into the darkness.

There was tug on the hem of his trousers and Wiggins looked down to see a smallish creature at his ankle. It was the brownie Watson had saved. At least he thought so. They all looked rather alike.

He crouched down. "Thank you, little one." He thought a moment, remembered what Watson had said and turned, put his hand in the pack and pulled out an apple, giving it to the brownie. The brownie looked at him and then took the apple. He dashed off. Wiggins noticed that the fair folk had all disappeared as well.

"That was different," he said, surprised at how calm he felt.

He moved to look at the unconscious figure on the ground. The wolf was licking Watson's face, he was moving slowly and lifted a hand to bat him away. Then stopped and reached up and patted the wolf, wearily. "It's okay Sherlock, I'm okay."

And there it was, out in the open, the undisclosed, furtive idea that was not really a secret. Watson slowly sat up with the help of Wiggins and Sherlock. He rubbed his hand over his face, scratches, cuts and small burns peppered the skin.

"What happened? I feel drugged. What was this all about?"

"I think they were sacrificing you in their annual bonfire exorcism. They are extremists and don't like anything not human, anything magical. They pick something every year and burn it, hoping to purge the word of magic. It's a sin, I guess. You just happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time."

Still a little foggy from the drugs, he looked at Wiggins bemusedly. "You seem to know a lot about it," he said quietly, no accusation in his voice.

Wiggins blushed and looked down at the ground. "When I was young, after I lost my parents and my sister, I lived with them for time. They aren't bad folks, mostly. Just scared of what they don't understand. I, umm, never stopped them, though. I saw a few burnings. It mostly turned my stomach and I left after a time. I never did go back. I kind of forgot in all the excitement what night it was or I would have suggested we not stick around."

Watson looked down at his hands and then back to Wiggins. "We've all done things, Bill, things we regret or shouldn't have done. We've all stood by and let things happen that shouldn't have happened. The world changed and some of us weren't ready to change with it and it made some of our choices not so nice. But you stood up tonight and did the right thing. Past is past. We can only move forward." He glanced down at the wolf that was sitting at his feet, looking up at him and panting. He smiled a sad smile. Then a puzzled look crossed his face.

"Although, how did they know what I was and why did they just take me?"

"Don't know about the first but they only take one each year and the wolf would have been tricky. A human, a cursed human would have more impact in their minds. I don't know," a nod to the wolf, "if he was drugged or not. He woke me up."

Watson started to say something but paused and turned toward the east so quickly it startled Sherlock.

A glance at the face of the man in the light from the still burning fire, revealed a look of grim acceptance. Sherlock stood, his body leaned against Watson, head on level with the man and his tail, down. Silver eyes flicked back and forth between the beloved face and the threatening sky. A low whine was building in his chest.

Softly, "we lost track of time." Wiggins looked in the same direction. He could see a noticeable difference in the sky; a faint cold yellow was brushing the sky in between the crumbling buildings, in the crepuscular light.

The sun was rising, quickly.

Watson looked around but there didn't seem to be anywhere for them to go, nowhere that was safe.

He looked at Wiggins, "I'm sorry, I can't leave. I guess since you've figured this part out, I'm about to change, become the hawk. You, um, might want to go over there and wait. It isn't pretty."

Wiggins didn't know quite what to say. He felt helpless in the face of what the two were about to go through, but he didn't want to leave, not because of some weird voyeuristic need to watch but because he figured they would be vulnerable during the transformation. He steeled himself and said, "No. You need watching. No telling if they're still out there waiting."

Watson looked down again. His hands clenched with a slight tremble and he nodded sharply. "Not many have seen this. It's umm, it's rather private. Sorry."

"I'll be watching the area. Not you lot."

A look of exasperated disbelief on his face, Watson smiled slightly and swiftly removed his shoes and trousers. His jacket, sweater and shirt followed. Wiggins could see all of this out of the corner of his eye as he tried to avoid watching the proceedings. Faintly he could see Watson as he knelt down by the wolf and pull him close, his hands gripped in his fur and he whispered to him.

The first rays of light began to crest the buildings and one small, shining beam fell on the top of Watson's head. A shift and Watson glanced up, faced the direction of the sun and stood, pulled to his feet by the allure of the light. A shudder rippled through his body, almost like waves in a pond as he raised his arms in supplication and acceptance, a glowing Vitruvian man. Wiggins gave up pretence and despite his best intensions, watched. He couldn't help himself; he had to, was drawn in. The beam widened as the sun came up, the earth rolled to meet her. It fell across the wolf, the light increased, making it was harder to see the shapes of the two, but it was just the beams from the sun, the two figures glowed with an inner light as well. It expanded and draped them, a glowing cloak, wrapped them, caressed them. The image of a spectral bird painted over Watson, stretched to meet his frame and then pulled itself into his body, ghostly feathers drifting down from his outstretched arms. Crouched at his side, the wolf looked up at the man, his ears laid back. Watson's head went back and a cry tore out of his throat, agonized and long, heart rendering. The wolf sat up on his haunches and howled, the two voices mingled, blended, belonged. The brightness increased and Watson's body shrank into itself. A hand lifted to block the sun, Wiggins blinked from the glare and something else, tears. He wiped his eyes, emotions crashed on to him as the implications of what these two went through twice a day tumbled upon him. Watson was right, it wasn't pretty, it was full of heartbreaking beauty and sorrow. Unable to stop, his mouth open, tears streamed down his face, he saw the wolf's shape stretch and elongate, the hair drawing back into his body, except on the top were it stayed black and became curly. The body of John Watson disappeared like smoke or a dream and in its place a hawk sat on the ground, blinked at the light, confused by the sudden change. Holmes, who lay naked on the grass, had transformed as well, but with just enough time, just enough awareness to see the last of Watson's humanity leave.

_No_ thought Wiggins, as Holmes reached out a hand toward the bird, an urgent, desperate move, as he tried to touch, tried to bring Watson to him. Startled, the wild once more thrummed through his veins, the bird took flight, fast. Head down, Holmes slammed his fist into the ground and then looked up into the sky after the bird and a cry tore out of his throat, a plea to break hearts,

"John!"


End file.
